Trees

“The righteous flourish like the palm tree and grow like a cedar in Lebanon. They are planted in the house of the Lord; they flourish in the courts of our God. They still bear fruit in old age; they are ever full of sap and green.” – Psalm 92:12-13

Psalm 92 is titled, “A Song for the Sabbath,” and I can think of nothing better to reflect on during a sabbath than trees. Annie Dillard wrote this:

“Concerning trees and leaves… there's a real power here. It is amazing that trees can turn gravel and bitter salts into these soft-lipped lobes, as if I were to bite down on a granite slab and start to swell, bud and flower. Every year a given tree creates absolutely from scratch ninety-nine percent of its living parts. Water lifting up tree trunks can climb one hundred and fifty feet an hour; in full summer a tree can, and does, heave a ton of water every day. A big elm in a single season might make as many as six million leaves, wholly intricate, without budging an inch; I couldn't make one. A tree stands there, accumulating deadwood, mute and rigid as an obelisk, but secretly it seethes, it splits, sucks and stretches; it heaves up tons and hurls them out in a green, fringed fling. No person taps this free power; the dynamo in the tulip tree pumps out even more tulip tree, and it runs on rain and air.”

Amazing. And we walk by these things all the time. In the ancient near east, palms and cedars meant something special: in a dry and arid climate, they were images of strength, longevity, and beauty. Their leaves were green all year round. The palm here is likely the date palm, which bore fruit that was a dietary staple, and represented the presence of life-giving oases of water (Exodus 15:27, Numbers 33:9). The cedars of Lebanon grew to be immensely large and lived for thousands of years, symbolizing royal power and wealth. They were both literally in the house of the Lord: wood from the cedars of Lebanon were imported by Solomon to build the temple (1 Kings 5). Palms were used in the décor of the temple (1 Kings 6:29), were in Ezekiel’s vision of the new temple (Ezekiel 40:16), and were used to welcome Jesus, God tabernacled on earth, to Jerusalem (John 12:13).

We have four giant redwood trees in our back yard. When I get too caught up in the dramas of daily life, I go outside and look at them. I think, these trees will be here long after we and this house are gone. Here they are, quietly but constantly flourishing, spitting out bud and pine, heaving up tons of water. The wicked are like the grass, here today and gone tomorrow, but the righteous are like a tree in God’s presence. We will last past these times and ever bear fruit. These trees live in an entirely different scale of time and matter, and in our sabbath-rest pauses, it’s good to remember that.

Sorrow

“How long must I take counsel in my soul and have sorrow in my heart all the day?” – Psalm 13:2

Last week we were starting our homeschool day when Elijah became inordinately upset over something relatively minor. It turned out I hadn’t done something exactly the way his kinder teacher had. Do you miss her? I asked. He nodded, and suddenly his anger melted into tears. Somehow the reality of what we’ve all lost hit me as I sat there. I couldn’t really tell him he would get to see her again soon. I just held him as he cried. 

Grief is so often a postscript for me. I busy myself with making the best of things, creating and carrying out action plans, thinking about how much better we have it than so many others. But as my kids teach me, it is okay to be sad. The sadness is there, and sometimes it must be held gently and given space. Elijah ended up drawing a picture of his classroom we sent to his teacher, a little memorial that included all his favorite parts of the room: the rocking chair where she sat, the rainbow rug, the smartboard with penguins on it, blue window drapes and the peace table. If I were to draw a picture of all the things I miss about our old life, in it would be coffee shops. Friends around a dinner table. Our fifth-grader graduating from elementary school. Our son striding off to swim practice in his parka, loaded with all his gear. Our church sanctuary, filled with people and music. 

I wrote about this psalm near the start of our one-year reading adventure, but this time around, I find myself not wanting to think past verse two. I am consistently amazed by David’s ability not only to acknowledge his sorrow, but to sit with it in God’s presence. The thing about grief is that it’s so lonely. No one really understands how it feels. Sometimes I picture it like an ocean that I sink into, an underwater place from which I can gesticulate, but not speak distinctly. When I’m there, it’s hard to describe how I feel. And what I want there aren’t words anyway. I want presence, a hand to hold in the dark, and it seems to me that is what David has with his God.

There are new, surprisingly good things growing up out of this time. If I were to draw a picture of our lives now, it would be full of unique memories that will likely never happen again. But I’m finding it’s good to be as intentional about our grief as we are about our gratitude. If the one opens our eyes to the gifts of this new time, the other allows us to acknowledge the losses we bear. And when we pray our grief to God, we experience his presence and allow him to work in us in that place.

Repentance

“But David’s heart struck him after he had numbered the people. And David said to the Lord, ‘I have sinned greatly in what I have done.’” – 2 Samuel 24:10

“Our Lord and Master Jesus Christ willed the entire life of believers to be one of repentance.” – Martin Luther, first of the Ninety-Five Theses

We hear about not just one, but two episodes of explicit sin in David’s life, and both times, his response is striking. After Nathan confronts him about the episode with Bathsheba, David’s first and only words are, “I have sinned against the Lord” (2 Samuel 12:13). He says the same first three words to God after doing the census. He does not make excuses. He does not blame others, or the demands of leadership. He does not point to norms within the surrounding culture. He doesn’t use passive language, or reframe his sin in nicer terms. He sees his sin nearly exclusively in the vertical dimension.

Repentance can be self-centered or God-centered. Self-centered repentance happens when we are sorry for the sin because of its consequences to us. Our main aim is to avoid punishment, to keep God happy so he will continue to give us what we want. The repentance itself becomes a form of self-atonement; the self-oriented misery or self-flagellation we experience becomes a reason we deserve to be forgiven. This kind of repentance becomes harder and harder as we come to rely more and more upon our own moral goodness for salvation and change.

God-centered repentance is sorry for the sin because it displeases and dishonors God. Its aim is to avoid anything contrary to God’s heart, anything that would keep us from tapping fully into the joy of our union with Christ. The repentance itself becomes a form of grief: and like the promise “blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted,” there is close on its heels an experience of grace, a feeling that forgiveness is not earned through our own suffering, but received through Christ’s suffering. This kind of repentance happens more and more in our lives, in an ongoing and dynamic cycle: the more we see our sins, the more we experience grace, and the more aware of that precious grace we are, the more we’re able to drop our denials and self-defenses to admit the true dimensions of our sin.

When it says “David’s heart struck him,” the verb used is nakah, meaning “to slay or kill.” This is no mild word. This is not intellectual regret, or a calculating correction. David felt slain by his own heart. He was completely smitten by the realization of his sin, and he doesn’t go speak to Joab or the people: he speaks to God, against whom only he has sinned (Psalm 51:4). We see this word again in verse 17, when the angel strikes the people as a consequence of sin, and David offers himself instead. God doesn’t take him up on that, but years later there is one man who is “stricken, smitten by God, and afflicted” (Isaiah 53:4) for his people. We also read on the same day these words from Peter: “Repent therefore, and turn back, that your sins may be blotted out, that times of refreshing may come from the presence of the Lord, and that he may send the Christ appointed for you, Jesus” (Acts 3:19-20). May we experience God-centered repentance that leads to true change and times of refreshing within God’s presence.

Samson's Death, Christ's Death

“And Samson said, ‘Let me die with the Philistines.’ Then he bowed with all his strength, and the house fell upon the lords and upon all the people who were in it. So the dead whom he killed at his death were more than those whom he had killed during his life.” – Judges 16:30

Samson’s death was not like Christ’s in a few major ways. His death was the result of disobedience, which we see throughout his life in patterns of impulsive recklessness, sexual addiction, vindictive violence and pride. He died to redeem himself. Christ’s death was a result of his obedience, and he died to redeem us.

But there are striking similarities as well. Both were betrayed by those they loved and handed over to Gentile oppressors. Both were mocked, chained, and became weak. Both acted alone.

This latter point is an interesting one. The cycles in Judges are really more of a downward spiral: judges become more and more flawed. Repentance becomes less and less genuine or even present. The last five chapters of the book break the chronological flow of the story to go back and demonstrate just how far the Israelites had strayed from covenantal faith. But as the cycles become darker and darker, there are elements that increasingly point to Christ, like this one. Othniel rallied all of Israel (3:7-11). Deborah rallied part of Israel (5:15-18). Gideon fought with 300. Samson fought alone. As Edmund P. Clowney writes, “God had shown that He could deliver Israel with an army of willing volunteers; He had also shown that He could save with as few as three hundred… But when the Spirit of God came upon Samson, the Lord showed that He had no need for even three hundred. He could deliver by one.”

Samson killed at least over one thousand men (15:16) through his one act of death, creating a permanent rift between the Philistines and Israelites. God used Samson to bring Israel out of a place of profound and complete capitulation to Canaanite culture, paving the way to restoring their identity as people of God. Like Christ, Samson’s death opened the way to new life—despite his unprecedented flaws. And so we see that, in the midst of the darkening spiral, there is also a movement towards God, towards the Christ who dies, the Spirit who counsels, the Father who rules with justice. As the Psalmist wrote, “Then shall all the trees of the forest sing for joy before the Lord, for he comes, for he comes to judge the earth. He will judge the world in righteousness, and the peoples in his faithfulness” (Psalm 96:13).

Discipline

“Whoever spares the rod hates his son, but he who loves him is diligent to discipline him.” – Proverbs 13:24

The question I get asked most frequently as a parent is: how do you discipline your children? Most people seem to be looking for technique, several kinds of which we’ve used. This verse is quoted with some controversy in the context of spanking: some claim the word for “rod,” shebet, refers to the kind of wooden stick used for physical punishment; others point out that it is the same word used in Psalm 23:4 of the comforting shepherd’s rod. Regardless, the main point is that disciplining our children is such an important part of how we love them that to avoid it is akin to an act of hatred. And most of the time, when discipline fails, it’s not a matter of improper technique as much as how we use them.

The word for “love” here, ahab, is the same word that describes how God loves us (Deuteronomy 6:5). We must always exercise discipline in a way that represents God: in the life of our children, we are the look of God’s face, we are the touch of His hand, we are the tone of His voice. Think for a moment about the glory of God’s utter faithfulness in how he reveals his authority and law to his children: that is how we are to discipline our children. Never inconsistently or affected by our own emotion or mood. Never selfishly or affected by how they make us feel or look. Never impatiently. Never with demeaning or condemning words.

In other words, before we discipline our children, we must discipline ourselves. As Martyn Lloyd-Jones writes, “When you are disciplining a child, you should have first controlled yourself… What right have you to say to your child that he needs discipline when you obviously need it yourself? Self-control, the control of temper, is an essential prerequisite in the control of others.” It does no good to have the perfect technique down if you use it sometimes but not others, or if you use it in anger. As we ask God to bring us into greater submission before Him, to help us overcome our own anger and frustration, we allow Him to reveal in us any sinful or selfish ways we view our children. The more we open ourselves to receiving His correction in our lives, the more we can rightly love our children through the correction we offer them. 

The word for “diligent” here is shachar, which means “to break forth as light, as the dawn,” which one lexicon describes as “a word altogether poetic.” It reminds me of when Zechariah speaks of “the tender mercy of our God, whereby the sunrise shall visit us from on high” (Luke 1:78). We are to earnestly seek the dawning of the good news of Jesus into our lives. To look for the breaking in of God’s mercy. To diligently orient all our discipline so that it points to the gospel.

Lately, I’ve been thinking of discipline as opportunities God gives me to allow the Holy Spirit to work His conviction and grace in my children’s lives. God has given me authority over my children, but He has not given me the power to change them. I can’t fix them; it’s not up to me. Only the gospel has that power. If I operate on the assumption that I can change my children, then I see every misbehavior as failure, and I become over-focused on the behavior itself. But if I realize that only God can change my children, I look diligently for every opportunity to open their hearts to the work of the Holy Spirit: and discipline moments are exactly those kinds of opportunities. Nothing reveals the heart condition of my children like their misbehavior does, and if I modify their behavior but miss their hearts, I don’t really change them for the long-term, anyway. 

Orienting discipline towards the gospel means coupling any discipline technique with instruction, typically a brief conversation that helps them understand the heart struggle behind their behavior, presents the gospel in some form, and opens space for confession and grace. Most of the time, nothing seems to happen, and that’s normal. But sometimes His grace really does break through. It was during a discipline moment that Eric accepted Jesus as his savior. He has been our most difficult child to discipline, and it was an episode like any other, but somehow that day, when I explained that Jesus died not only to free him from the consequence of his sin but the power it held in his life, something clicked. I don’t know how many conversations after difficult discipline moments I’d had with him before that day—very many—and I’ve never had an experience quite like that with the other children—but I thank God I can look back now and see that it is always worth it. Being diligent in our discipline is one of the most important ways we love our children, even though it’s one of the hardest things we do. 

Far As The Curse Is Found

“‘Cursed be anyone who does not confirm the words of this law by doing them.’ And all the people shall say, ‘Amen.’” – Deuteronomy 27:26

“For all who rely on works of the law are under a curse; for it is written, ‘Cursed be everyone who does not abide by all things written in the Book of the Law, and do them’… Christ redeemed us from the curse of the law by becoming a curse for us.”- Galatians 3:10, 13

These chapters in Deuteronomy are fascinatingly horrific to read. We know about the curse from Genesis 3, but here it is fleshed out in detail so terrible and gruesome that it’s hard to keep looking at the page. In family and work, kitchen and field, weather and body, war and love, king and children: this is what God’s wrath upon disobedience looks like. This is what it means to be forsaken by God. This is what the death and disintegration began in Adam looks like. One would think the decision to obey was a no-brainer! And yet, despite this warning that was read to the people every seventh year, we’ll see in books to come that much of the curses came true. 

Paul quotes these chapters multiple times in Galatians 3 to help us understand what it is Jesus redeemed us from. I was under a curse. Jesus became a curse for me. He took my place. He had all my sins laid on him. He received to the full the physical and spiritual suffering of the accursed, in my place. He lifted the curse from me. Question 39 of the Heidelberg Catechism asks, “Is it significant that he was ‘crucified’ instead of dying some other way?”  Answer: “Yes. This death convinces me that he shouldered the curse which lay on me, since death by crucifixion was accursed by God.”

We still live in a cursed world, but one day he will set even that right. As we sing during this time of year, “No more let sin and sorrow grow / nor thorns infest the ground / He comes to make his blessings flow / far as the curse is found…” Written by Isaac Watts in 1719, these words are based on Psalm 98 and are actually about the second coming of Christ. The world will be remade, Revelation 22 tells us. The water of life will flow from the throne of God. “No longer will there be anything accursed, but the throne of God and of the Lamb will be in it, and his servants will worship him. They will see his face, and his name will be on their foreheads. And night will be no more. They will need no light of lamp or sun, for the Lord God will be their light, and they will reign forever and ever.” That is what we’re singing about. Christmas in this world is bittersweet: there is light but still darkness; there is family but still dysfunction and absence or loss; there is holiday but still work looms; there are gifts but still clutter and covetousness. But this first coming of Jesus reminds us too of his second. We have not only the beginning of the story but the end. We know the time will come when blessings flow as far as the curse is found.

When Trouble Comes

“But I have trusted in your steadfast love;

my heart shall rejoice in your salvation.

I will sing to the Lord,

because he has dealt bountifully with me.”

- Psalm 13:5-6

Two January’s ago, I went through a period of what I ended up calling “situational dysthymia.” The opening of this Psalm reminded me of that time: wondering how long it would last and having a sense of helplessness about how I felt (v1), not always able to sense God’s presence (v1), having to counsel myself to live a normal life every day (v2), taking longer to fall asleep (v3), not feeling up to being with people (v4).

At the time I took notes from Phil Ryken’s When Trouble Comes that were helpful—he looked at the lives of Spurgeon, Elijah, David, Job, Isaiah, and Jesus and wrote, “all of this leads me to accept seasons of doubt, discouragement and depression as a normal part of life in a fallen world.” It’s okay to be unhappy and say that you are unhappy. Keep on keeping on, he says: tell faithful friends and get support from them, stay in the Word, eat something healthy every day even if your appetite is low, exercise, try to be present with your children, take walks in nature, keep going to church.

While the first four verses are David’s present reality—we learn that it’s normal to feel this way and okay to talk with God openly about it—in the last two verses, David speaks only in terms of the past and the future. It’s another chiasm, the past flanking the future. In the Hebrew, there are only eight words:

batach (but I have trusted)- lit, “to set one’s hope and confidence in”

checed (in your steadfast love)- lit, “to show oneself to be good or kind”

leb (my heart)- lit, “the inner part of me, including mind, will, feelings”

giyl (shall rejoice)- lit, “to spin around under the influence of a violent emotion”

yeshuw’ah (in your salvation)- lit, passive participle of “save or deliver”

shiyr (I will sing)- lit… to sing

Yehovah (unto the Lord)- the unpronounced name of God, from root “to exist”

Gamal (because he has dealt bountifully with me)- lit, “to treat well”

Interestingly, the last word of the Psalm, gamal, is translated elsewhere “wean” (as in baby) or “ripen” (as in fruit); it has the connotation of cherishing and warming. David looks back, to God’s kindness and gamal, and ahead, to joy and singing. Not only perhaps in the sense of musical worship, but as he was a composer and musician, also in the sense of not losing who he is, his vocation and sense of self. All of it frames this alliterative yeshuw-ah – yehovah: the God who simply exists, beyond and above all situations. The one by whom we are delivered. 

How do I equip myself to be able to pray as David when times of trouble come? Can I recount the gamal of God in my life? Have I allowed myself to experience and express sorrow and giyl? How well do I know this Yehovah? David is honest about his present, but he also sees that God is the sovereign God of all time. He sees he is not able to save himself. He is able to experience his feelings, yet realize that there has been, and will be, a savior and a reality beyond them.